The Inside
by coloe
Summary: Three days after Doug has left for California...
1. Chapter 1

There was silence when he blinked awake. Roaring, deafening silence. For a few seconds, his heart quickened and dread rose up from the pit of his stomach. And then he remembered. Nothing was wrong, this was just how the flat was now. Silent, empty.

Apart from him.

The dread sank back down, leaving hollowness in its place. He clamoured out of bed and padded to the kitchen in his sock feet, flicking on the radio just to fill the small room with noise.

"…never mind I'll find someone like you…" Adele crooned. He stood for a minute staring through the net curtains at the grey October sky, before slamming his hand down on the radio and shutting it off. Silence roared again.

How had this happened? How had his life changed so much? Three months ago, he would have woken to the sound of Leah and Lucas fighting over the Thomas the Tank Engine mug, or Amy singing in her tone-deaf way in the shower. He would have rolled over and pulled the pillow down over his ears, trying to cling to the last few seconds of his dream before the day boisterously wiped it away. And surrendering to life, he would have stretched and smiled and bounced into the kitchen to two eager cuddles and maybe even a coffee, if Amy was there ahead of him.

Now, he listened to the gradual build of the kettle's song, growing more pressured and urgent as it climbed toward the boil. He stared at the fading, old-fashioned wallpaper with its creeping mildew, feeling the cold leaking through his socks from the dingy lino floor. What a dump, he thought.

They had been so young when they moved in here and it was a palace just because it was away from the reign of Terry. And as years flew past, it continued to be a palace, filled with the light and air and happiness of people he loved. Just three months ago, when the doorbell rang, with Michaela, or Ally, or Doug on the other side, he was proud opening the door of his beautiful home and inviting them in to his beautiful family.

Doug. As the thought of him flitted into his head, he flicked on the radio again, needing to distract himself.

"…guys tryna touch my junk, junk…" Kesha blared, thankfully. He left it on as he made breakfast, focussing on the day ahead. Maybe he'd go to the deli. He'd left it closed for a week now, it was bad for business. And he didn't want to let Doug down. Again. He'd go mad if he stayed in the flat any longer anyway. There wouldn't be anyone ringing the doorbell, he knew that.

Involuntarily, he glanced at the spare set of keys that the landlord had thrown into his hand three days ago. He swallowed hard. No more visitors at all.

The village was quiet as he walked over to the deli, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoody, eyes on the ground. Maybe people were still nervous out on the street after the shooting. He glanced up, momentarily, to the balcony where he had crouched, petrified, waiting to feel a bullet pierce him.

If people knew, he wondered, what would they think? If they knew the bullet that killed Riley was meant for him? If they knew how he had been saved, who had saved him? And if they knew why… if he knew why…

As he turned the key in the deli door and pushed it forward, an inexplicable sense of relief washed over him. The green-blue walls, the faint aroma of coffee beans, the gentle hum of the industrial fridge, they'd grown familiar. He felt more at home here than he did in his strangely empty flat, a box of walls and floors that meant nothing without the people it protected. The deli, it represented something different, something that was all his.

And it reassured him, knowing that he had one valid reason for staying here after Amy took the kids to Manchester. One open, honest reason that he didn't need to be ashamed of.

He and Doug, they'd worked their fingers to the bone to get this place off the ground, sweated through the summer, and willed it into existence. Doug loved it too, he knew that, but nobody could love it more than Ste did. As he built this business, he was building himself as well, throwing out all the broken furniture and fittings that had accumulated over years, polishing up pretty features that had long been lost in the rubble. And as it grew, he grew too, learning to be proud, learning to try and to fail and to succeed, learning to be loved the way he deserved to be.

He hit the light switch, flooding the place with brightness and set to work immediately. Within an hour, a slow trickle of customers was beginning and he was able to lose himself in the idle banter that came naturally to him.

"Alright Will?" he grinned, smiling widely at the always slightly baffled-looking student. "What can I get for ya?"

"Panini please, cheese and ham."

"Bit boring, innit?" Ste teased. "Don't ya want to try summat a bit more adventurous? This is artisan food, this!"

"It's not for me, it's for my Dad," Will answered.

"Oh, never mind then. Here, could ya tell Barney that there might be a bit of work going here for the next couple of weeks? Only if he's interested. I felt dead bad about what happened the last time."

"Is Doug away?" Will enquired.

Ste looked up from Panini preparations to answer and, just beyond Will's shoulder, saw Cheryl pass by the window. He felt a momentary quickening of his pulse.

"Sorry? Eh, yeah, just for a couple of weeks. Gone to California, in't he?" he said with forced brightness. "Probably come back with a killer tan. If only someone didn't have to hang around here and look after this place, eh? Wish I was there with him!"

He was surprised by how easily the lie rolled off his tongue. He had always been a bad pretender. Except when he'd been pretending to himself.

The day passed by swiftly. Barney came by at lunchtime and was reinstated as "assistant", beginning his new employment by smashing an entire tray of teacups on the floor. On the whole it was successful, Ste thought, locking the front door as the sky darkened above his head. A good day of trading. He turned and started back towards his deserted flat. So why did he feel so empty? He kicked a discarded coke can on the road and listened to it rattle noisily. Would he feel less empty if Cheryl had come in that time? If he had been able to squeeze a few morsels of information from her, good or bad or indifferent, just a few crumbs to keep him going?

Ten steps away from the door of his flat he stopped. He couldn't face it, he decided, a night sitting on his own watching mindless television and coming up with excuses not to ring Doug. He'd left him a voicemail every day since leaving, and Ste had returned none of them. He couldn't speak to him, hear his kind and beautiful voice telling him he loved him and he was sorry, when he didn't even realise that Ste was letting him down, completely and utterly. Maybe he'd go for a pint.

He loved Doug, he tried to remind himself as he walked. Life with Doug in it was happy and optimistic, filled with laughter and plans. They were a team, that's what they always said. Ste loved that, he loved their team. They were untouchable, nothing that they couldn't do. Ste was untouchable, he was safe and free.

So why had he let him walk out of the flat that day? Why had he let him climb into Carl's car and drive off, away from him?

His feet had taken him to the bridge outside the Dog now and he stood looking in at the laughter and chatter and brightness spilling from its doors. He could see Dirk Savage gesticulating wildly as he made some emphatic point to Dodger. Texas was sitting nearby, texting someone, maybe Doug. And though he couldn't see her, he could hear Cheryl Brady's booming voice echoing around the room and out the door into the dark night. Would he get a few crumbs from her now?

He sat down, right where he was on the bridge. This was where he'd found Danny Houston's body, he remembered, numbly, as he stared at the gentle ripple of the water beneath him. That's what life was, before Doug, before the deli. Filled with darkness. Even acts of love were filled with hate.

The beatings weren't even so bad, really. Yeah, he still had a scar under his right ear, and when he ran really fast his ribs still niggled at him a bit, but they were just war wounds now. Nothing he didn't deserve after the ones he'd given to Amy. It was the other stuff that still prickled sharply, when he let himself think of it. The repeated rejections, the deliberate humiliations, the cruel promises that were smashed roughly on top of his head again and again.

There was a crash behind him and he looked around to see a group of students picking up a drunken Barney from the ground. He hadn't wasted much time, Ste thought, the deli had only been closed an hour.

"Hello boss!" Barney shouted over, noticing him from his vantage point on the ground. "Excellent day today, just excellent. Just celebrating with a few comrades, you know, frittering away a little hard earned cash!"

"Right, whatever," Ste replied, turning his gaze back to the black depths beneath.

"Hey, you alright Ste?" Barney's friend asked, the blond girl who was going out with that idiot Ally now. Ash, her name was. She was peering over at him, inquisitively, the pink ChezChez logo glowing brightly from her black uniform. Why couldn't people just mind their own business?

"Yeah I'm fine," Ste snapped defensively. A finally standing Barney staggered backwards and collapsed onto the ground again, this time taking a patio table and six or seven pint glasses with him. What was it about that kid and smashing drinking utensils?

Suddenly, Ste ripped his gaze from the water and threw it at Ash. "Here, are you on your way over to the club?"

"Yeah, gotta run actually," she threw a helpless look at Barney rolling around on the ground. "Boss man is back in action, can't be late today."

"Well I'll walk with ya then," Ste said quickly, springing to his feet and darting over to her side. He could feel his pulse quickening again. Why was he doing this?

"You're going to the club? At eight?"

"Em, yeah."

"Ok then."

They started off, leaving the floundering Barney to the others to sort out.

"So," Ash began. "Are you meeting someone there?"

"Where?"

"At the club. Since you're going there so early, I mean."

"Oh, em, no. No I'm not. I'm not meeting anybody."

"Three no's!" she exclaimed. "Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much!"

"What?"

"Never mind."

She let silence settle over them for a few moments. Ste barely noticed it.

"You wouldn't be hoping to run into a certain Irishman, would you?" Ash enquired archly after a few moments.

"What? No! How do you..?" Ste stopped walking as he trailed off. He took a breath before fixing imploring eyes on her. "How is he? Is he alright?"

She shrugged, deliberately casual, coming to a halt as he did. "Bit bruised, but alright. Same old moustache we know… and love."

The way she said it made Ste squirm in his shoes. Coy, suggestive. How did she know so much about him?

"Really? I mean, he seemed a bit… different the last time I saw him."

It was an image he couldn't get out of his head, those sad and tired eyes, telling him he was finished messing with his life. Sad and tired and surrendering.

"Like, not the bruises and that. Kind of… kind of like he was broken."

There was a pause and the word hung in the air between them for a minute.

"You really care about him, don't you?" Ash said gently, dropping the sarcastic tone that seemed to coat most of what she said.

"No!" Ste snapped, instinctively. "I mean, I couldn't. The things he's done, you know."

Ash said nothing. Letting him go on, he supposed. He swallowed hard. When he continued, his voice was low and his eyes were fixed on an ink-black beetle scurrying frantically across the ground, exposed.

"I spent years trying, you know. But he didn't want it. He just wanted… I dunno… control."

The beetle finally found its way into a crack in the curb and disappeared. He continued to stare after it.

"I thought it was finished. No more hold." He shook his head.

Ash reached out and pressed her fingers into his hand. "What's happened Ste, what's he done?"

Ste didn't know how to answer. What had he done? Saved his life. Saved his life and walked away, just as Ste had wished he would a million times. After toying with it for so long, he had finally handed Ste his life back and promised to leave him alone with it.

"You know, when someone treats you like that," Ste whispered, eyes still fixed on the beetle's escape. "You should hate them for it."

He looked up into Ash's face, confused and concerned.

"You should want to be shut of them."

"But you don't..?" Ash guessed.

"All he wants is control," Ste pleaded. "That's how I got rid of the hoping and wishing."

"You taught yourself not to love him," Ash said.

"Yeah, yeah I did!" Ste nodded, his voice growing frantic. "I broke free. Coz that was the real problem, not all the stuff that he did to me, but that I still wanted him in spite of it all! Love, it makes you powerless!"

He broke off, eyes wild and wet. How had he ended up here again? How had all of his carefully crafted indifference been blown away so fast?

"Hey Ashley!"

They both spun around at the sound of that voice, cutting through the crisp October night from the balcony of ChezChez. Ste's heart thumped painfully.

"You're late."

His eyes didn't even glance in Ste's direction.

"Right boss!" she shouted back.

"Ste," Ash said insistently, turning back to him. "Believe me, he's not in control. There's no one in the world less in control than he is."

She gave his hand one final squeeze before turning to hurry towards the ground entrance to the club. "You're still free."

Ste stayed where he was, eyes swimming with unshed tears and he watched Brendan Brady turn on his heel and disappear into the thumping bass of the nightclub. She was right, he wasn't in control. That's probably what he found so difficult, the terrifying uncontrolled abyss of being in love. But she was totally wrong when she said that Ste was free. He was as powerless as Brendan was.


	2. Chapter 2

Brendan Brady was numb.

He was sitting on a vibrant pink leopard-print sofa, staring at violent purple walls. Less than a mile away, his son was lying on a hospital bed, letting the rhythmical beep of a machine inform him of his own heartbeat.

Eileen would be there by now, frantically fussing at her son's side, building wrath and fury to direct at Brendan. Maybe Cheryl was still there too, adding to the ammunition. He doubted she would come back here, even if she'd left the hospital. Her face, seeing him spattered in blood and dead human flesh… She had plenty of friends who would give her a roof and a bed, help her to avoid her twisted brother.

Walker, who knew where he was? The terror, the fury, it had all died away now and Brendan could feel nothing towards the man. He knew he should be livid, bloodthirsty for revenge, but thoughts of him inspired only a staggering, breath-taking tidal wave of relief. What could have happened… He closed his eyes briefly, his mouth muttering a prayer of thanks.

His bones still ached from the explosion, but it was improving. During the nights, he had lain awake and enjoyed the dull, throbbing pain in his legs, savouring his penance. He regretted it, day by day, as the agony receded and he felt his limbs slowly strengthening. At least the agony had drowned out the numbness.

The black Samsung Galaxy on the coffee table vibrated noisily with an incoming text.

"RU COMIN IN?"

It was from the Rhys Ashworth. He'd been holding down the fort in the club for the past week, and clearly was sick of the responsibility. Why else would he want Brendan Brady around? There was still no sign of Joel, since he had disappeared into the sunset with Theresa at the first hint of trouble. Brendan sighed. That was unfair, he supposed. Joel had been through a lot. He'd put Joel through a lot.

His long fingers moved deftly over the plastic screen as he typed a reply.

"B THERE 8."

One of the bosses should show their faces. Even if the club was the last thing he cared about now. It was the only thing he had left to care about.

With effort, he heaved himself to his feet and hobbled towards his bedroom to get dressed. He always felt calmer in his bedroom, the only room in the house not subjected to Cheryl's blinding interior décor tastes. He sat for a moment on the bed looking at the array of tailored suits hung neatly in his wardrobe. Look the part, be the part, he thought. He'd learned that early in life. Never let them see you broken.

For a second, his mind flitted back to the holiday home, to the brief and glorious moment when he had imagined he could change, he could stop hiding his most shameful and filthy secret, he could be free of it and all that it had cost him. Childish, really, to think a slate could be just wiped clean like that. As if the dirt wasn't embedded all the way through. It was like something Stephen would suggest.

He picked out a flashy taupe suit, ignoring the familiar lurching sensation in his stomach as that name and face crossed his mind. Momentary relief from the numbness. He was glad when it subsided and the dead feeling returned.

"Look the part, be the part," he said out loud, holding the suit up appraisingly.

The club was practically empty when he arrived. Rhys was slouched behind the bar, sending text messages and looking irritated. There was a gaggle of women in their thirties in the corner cackling loudly, probably a hen party starting early. They'd be on the dance-floor by ten, and at least one of them would be sick in the toilet by half eleven, Brendan predicted.

"Well it's really slammed in here, I can see why you needed me," Brendan challenged, eyeballing Rhys. He enjoyed watching him shift uncomfortably under his glare, and then immediately regretted enjoying it.

"Well, it's a Friday y'know, things will get really busy soon," Rhys defended himself. He eyed Brendan's crutches a little sheepishly. "How are ya, you alright?"

"Hmm…" Brendan grunted, ignoring the question. "I'll be in the office."

He made his way awkwardly up the metal staircase with his crutches, hating the pitying eyes of the cackling women that watched as he did so. Once safely ensconced in the closed office, he allowed himself to close his eyes and breathe a deep, sighing breath.

There was a time when he would sit in this office for hours, feet on the table, feeling the pulse of music from the club outside throb through his chair. He felt… he could barely even remember how he had felt – imperishable, enduring, powerful. Look the part, be the part. You could even fool yourself with that, for a while. In this office, he could. He could shut out the world and pretend that he was in control. Pretend that he wasn't stuck in some strange no-mans-land, staring across a great impassable gully that separated where he was from where he wanted to be.

Not anymore though… He felt more claustrophobic here than he had amongst the garish leopard-print at home. He fidgeted with his keys for a minute, opening a locked filing cabinet and pulling out a wad of invoices. He stared at them for a few seconds and threw them back into the drawer they had come from, turning the key in the lock again. He had to get out of here.

In a few steps he had reached the back door of the club and stepped out onto the balcony and into the black, inky night. The cold October air hit his face and he felt better. Letting the numbness course back through him, he turned his unseeing eyes up to the star-sprinkled sky, the sounds of the night mingling with the heavy bass beat following him from the club. Vaguely, he became aware of voices and as they grew louder his stomach lurched in that familiar way.

He watched them, the blond girl and the sandy-haired boy, standing close together in the middle of the street, oblivious to him. He was upset, Brendan knew. The way he moved, running a desperate hand through his gelled hair, the way his voice rose and fell, full of the weight of unshed tears. This was his fault. His face had haunted the last few days more than any other, his face as he stood hearing that Brendan would have died for him, that Brendan had spent months living just for him, that Brendan was finished with him now. Why had he not just lied? A kind, gentle, reassuring lie that Brendan just wanted to own him, to control him. A lie that he had meant nothing more than all the others.

He couldn't hear the words being spoken, but what he could see and feel was too much. Surely this would be too much for anybody, to bear witness to this? He had to stop it, but he couldn't tear himself away, not while those wiry arms were still flying wildly and desperately, while that piercing voice was still ebbing and flowing painfully. He grabbed onto the railing tightly.

"Hey Ashley!" he shouted, finally. The two turned towards him. He carefully avoided looking at Stephen's face.

"You're late," he stated, calm and confident. Look the part, be the part.

"Right boss!" she shouted back, turning to whisper something else to the broken boy before abandoning him in the street.

He turned quickly, before his eyes were trapped in that teary gaze, and disappeared into back into the club, back into his office. He was safer there.


	3. Chapter 3

Ste stared after the disappeared figure, swallowed up by the nightclub. What now, he wondered. Back to his empty flat? Back to the crowded pub? He hadn't really known why he wanted to come to the club with Ash, and now he was even less sure.

He'd been here before, hadn't he? Impossibly in love with this man, and certain that he loved him back. But somehow, that was never enough. Somehow, there was always a reason that Ste couldn't be allowed to just love and be loved. He felt a flash of anger, kicking violently at the crack in the kerb where he had just watched the beetle run for cover.

"OW!" he shouted, into the night, feeling the pain shoot from his toe up his leg. The pain made him angrier and, ridiculously, he kicked the kerb again.

"Bloody hell!" he gasped, staggering slightly this time.

He hobbled a couple of steps and sat down on the ground, a few feet away from that infuriating crack. Who was in charge of filling cracks in the pavement anyway? Because they weren't doing a very good job.

He sat, letting the anger deaden as the cold crept from the grey concrete through the denim of his jeans and into his bones. He might have sat there for five minutes, staring dejectedly at the ground in front of him, the silence of the night gently hushing his short-lived rage.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket, waking him from his stupor.

"YOU HAVE ONE NEW VOICE MESSAGE," he read from the screen.

Doug.

The squeezing feeling he got inside when he thought of Doug, it felt like someone was wrapping a tight hand around his heart. Doug, the kind and brave man who had walked hand-in-hand with Ste, generously loving him in unmeasured amounts, never rationing, never withholding, never inventing reasons to avoid happiness.

He hadn't lied to him, Ste told himself, desperately. When Doug asked him to marry him, Ste wanted to. He could see their life together. He pictured it like one of those Disney films that Leah and Lucas watched. Full of colour and smiles and teamwork.

Not real, he thought.

Maybe that was the problem. That wasn't real life. In his experience, real life was violent – Terry, himself, Brendan. Real life was heartbreak, and pain, with rare little glimpses of happiness shining through like beacons of perfection. Disney films were make-believe.

Sighing, he dialled his voicemail and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Hey Ste," the American accent came across the line. "Just calling to check in… again. Listen, I'm so sorry Ste. I'm so sorry for leaving like that. I wish that you would just call me back… I know you're angry, and I'm angry, but we're going to get through this… Because we love each other… I love you. Anyway. Call me."

Ste didn't wipe away the errant tear that slid down his face. He could see Doug's face, as he spoke. His startling blue eyes, round and emphatic and pleading. His beautiful full lips, trembling as he rushed through the last few words. He loved him too, he did. He loved him, but…

Ste gave an involuntary shiver, the cold reaching up to his back now, leaking underneath his hoody and making gooseflesh of his skin. But what? Shouldn't that be enough, just to love him and be loved by him? Shouldn't that be better than this, sitting alone in the gutter outside a nightclub? Better than hoping for some scrap of affection, of attention, that might never come? Better than letting every shred of self-respect that he had fought relentlessly to build be peeled away again?

Before he knew what he was doing, he was back on his feet and his fingers were dialling.

"Come on, Doug," he muttered, trying to ignore the panic rising in his chest as the ringtone continued. "Pick up, pick up…"

"Hello?" a voice crackled through the line after the tenth ring. "Hell... Hello, Ste?"

"Doug?" Ste cried. "Doug, can you hear me?"

"It's… bad line," the voice crackled, breaking up as it came. "…you? What's… deli?"

"Doug?! Doug, listen, I'm calling to tell ya, I love you too!"

Static crackled back at him.

"What?" the voice asked. "…hear you!"

"I SAID," Ste bellowed frantically into the phone and into the night. "I LOVE YOU!"

"I… you too!" Doug shouted back, joyfully.

Then the line went dead.

Ste stared at the phone in his hand, inanimate. He was breathing hard. From the shouting, maybe, or from the slowly receding panic. But he'd done it. He'd chosen Doug. He was safe now.

He dropped back onto the ground, not able to move immediately. That was it done, right? He gave his shoulders a little shake and nodded. He'd made his choice. Ste Hay had spent enough of his life in the dark. He wanted to live in a Disney film now.

He was so lost in what had just happened that he didn't even notice the rowdy group of students making their way noisily down the road until they were on top of him.

"Boss!" Barney cried in delight, toppling over onto the ground beside him and throwing an affectionate arm around his shoulder.

"For Christ's sake, Barney, not again," Will admonished, though he wasn't exactly exemplifying sobriety himself.

He leaned over and grabbed an arm, pulling unsuccessfully on it. The dark-haired one (Scott maybe?), grabbed the other arm and together they managed to right their curly-haired associate. Quite fit, Ste thought, gazing appreciatively at Scott.

He climbed to his feet as well, realising he had been sitting there for well over an hour by now.

"Boss, come with us for a drink!" Barney demanded. He had thrown his affectionate arm back around the shoulders of his employer in their new-found standing position.

"Barney, are you sure you're going to be able to work tomorrow?" Ste asked suspiciously.

"Moi?! But of course, but of course!" he protested. "It's a well-established method, Boss, drink as much as you like but stop before eleven! Foolproof!"

"Right," said Ste, unconvinced. He had a very clear recollection of Barney smashing a tray of cups when in the full of his senses today. Barney with a hangover was not something he looked forward to experiencing.

"Exactly! Excellent! To the drinking parlour then?"

Ste hesitated for a moment. It was still only nine thirty, he realised. And he didn't really want to be alone with his thoughts any more tonight. He felt exhausted from thinking.

"Yeah alright," he agreed. "Where're ya headed to then?"

"ChezChez," said Will, pointing across the road. "Ash is working tonight."

"Right," said Ste. He dithered for a minute. But he'd already made his choice, right?

With Barney's arm slung around his shoulder, Ste made his way to the door of the club and stepped inside.


	4. Chapter 4

Ash paused for a minute after walking through the door of the nightclub, wondering whether she should go back. The image of him. She swallowed hard, uncharacteristically. The twisted, tortured face. The desperation, dulled only by a sickening resignation.

His nakedness. That was the bit that had floored her. She could never allow herself to be naked like that, not if she lived forever.

"Eh, what time do you call this?!" snapped an irritated Rhys as he glanced up from his phone and spotted her standing, unmoving, at the entrance. "Shift starts at eight y'know!"

She jumped, guiltily.

"Aw you poor darling," she drawled, hurriedly plastering a look of sarcastic concern over the frown that had creased her brow as she contemplated Ste. Quickly, she made her way over to the bar. "I can see you're about to drop on your feet there, you're so overworked."

"Yeah whatever," Rhys grumbled in reply, continuing to hunch over his phone moodily.

"What's the matter, nobody texting you?" she needled, peering nosily over his shoulder.

"No!" Rhys snapped, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "Look, go check the ladies lav' for toilet paper, will ya? One of that lot's already been moaning about it being empty."

He jabbed an accusing finger towards a group of middle-aged women in the corner. On their annual night out, Ash presumed. She hoped someone would shoot her before she turned into that.

"Aye, aye captain," she retorted, giving him a mock salute before making her way over to the bathrooms.

She crinkled up her nose as she walked in. They already smelled disgusting, and it was only eight thirty. How was that possible? With a sigh, she began unscrewing the plastic paper-holder from the wall of the first cubicle. Oh well, it wasn't like this was forever.

She worked away quickly, but on her own again the image of Ste floated back into her head. She shouldn't have left him there, all alone. She shook her head, as if trying to shake the thought out of it. This was ridiculous. It wasn't like they were the best of friends. In fact, she was pretty sure Ste was not a fan of hers – he had been firmly in the Amy camp when Ally had cheated on her with Ash. Besides, she didn't think he was going to do anything stupid.

Her fingers stopped moving at the screws for a minute. That was it. He wasn't going to do anything. The resignation on his face. Resignation to misery.

That, and the nakedness.

In a split second, she had dropped the giant roll of toilet paper to the ground, oblivious as it unwound across the soggy bathroom floor. Roughly, she reefed open the bathroom door and strode defiantly to the metal staircase. She didn't know what had happened exactly, but she did know who was to blame for this. For that image.

As she stood, breathing hard, in front of the heavy steel door, her confidence waned somewhat. Like the door to a bomb-shelter, she thought. Impervious. But she straightened her shoulders, determined to make some futile gesture for the naked boy she had left in the street.

She knocked softly, waiting for the impatient "Come in!" before she entered his cave.

He was sitting, pen in hand, bent over a pile of paperwork. That reignited her anger. Oblivious to what he had caused. Or uncaring.

"Ashley," he said, his voice laced with mock surprise. He never seemed to be truly surprised. She supposed that was what happened when someone lived a life of constant vigilance. Nothing could sneak up on Brendan Brady, enemy or friend.

He leaned back in his chair, examining her appraisingly. She fought the urge to shift uncomfortably under his gaze. She wasn't afraid of him, she reminded herself.

"Well spit it out, I don't have all day."

"I ran into Ste earlier."

She deliberately held his gaze as she spoke, determined not to be cowed by those black, maniacal eyes. She waited, wondering if she was going too far. She had pushed him before, she knew, and gotten away with it. But she had an indefinable sense that Ste was different to the other lines she had crossed. Her pop psychology wouldn't be a game to him anymore, not if Ste was involved.

"And…?" Brendan said, picking up his pen and dropping his intense gaze from her. Dismissing her.

"And he was really upset," she said, momentarily forgetting the silent power struggle that she was trying to stay afloat in as she remembered that image. That nakedness.

"Is that so?" he asked disinterestedly, staring absent-mindedly at the nib of his pen. "About what?"

She didn't even have to force herself to maintain the gaze now, she was just staring openly at him. Was this it, was this all that broken boy could inspire in the man? Reclining, round-eyed and emotionless, staring at a pen? She had meant what she said to Ste – this man wasn't in control. He was completely trapped by his own fear. Fear of the world and everyone in it. Fear of nakedness. Had he really trained himself not to care at all?

"About you," she said slowly, a hint of distain creeping into her voice. "But you already know that, don't you?"

And just as gradually the distain faded and all she felt was an overwhelming sadness.

"What have you done to him?"

She was so caught by the emotion of what she was saying that her eyes fell to the floor, momentarily oblivious to the impervious man before her. That wasted nakedness. When she lifted her eyes again, his black eyes were fixed on her again.

"Are we done here?" he asked, impatiently.

Without speaking, she left, letting the door of the bomb-shelter clang shut behind her.


	5. Chapter 5

Brendan Brady had been sitting in the cell-like office for the last forty minutes, ever since he had retreated through the crack in the wall into his dark, engulfing nightclub from the balcony outside. He sat, leaning forwards, fingers resting open on the desk as though he was about to spring into action at any moment. The wad of invoices lay before him, untouched.

He was replaying it in his mind, over and over. Those desperate hands running through that sandy hair, that pinched voice restraining an ocean of uncried tears. He should stop. This wasn't helping.

For months he had been certain that it could never be over for them, never finished. He had watched Stephen build a life with someone else, a life without Brendan. He had listened to Stephen tell him that he didn't care about him anymore, that he couldn't touch him now.

He had watched and listened, but he hadn't believed.

Again, he tried to pick up the pen that rested on the desk before him, to shake the thoughts out of his head and fill it with order numbers instead. The pen trembled between his fingers. Frightened, he threw it down and rested his open fingers on the desk again, steadying them.

When Stephen had come to see him in the hospital, Brendan had been lying broken, from an explosion of fire and an explosion of memories. To tell him he was engaged.

In that moment Brendan finally understood. He saw it. With excruciating, awful clarity, he saw exactly how vast that gully was keeping him from where he wanted to be. It wasn't a deli, or an American boyfriend, or an engagement ring. It was Brendan. It was everything that had happened to make him everything that he was. Incapable of normal love.

There was a soft knock at the door, making him jump. He gave himself a quick shake, pulling the top invoice from the pile and picking up the pen again before shouting as impatiently as he could, "Come in!"

"Ashley," he declared, dropping the pen he had just picked up and reclining back in his chair regally as the blonde girl entered the room. He had been expecting her since his retreat from the balcony.

He felt himself tense slightly when he caught her expression, as though she was steeling herself to say something, but he was careful not to let her see it. He liked the girl, the way her cockiness belay a well-concealed vulnerability. He wondered how she had come to be that way. What secrets had she had to hide from the world as she grew up?

"Well, spit it out," Brendan prompted. "I don't have all day."

He gestured at the invoices covering his desk. He liked her, but he was wary of her. Especially today. Today, he couldn't handle too much more.

"I ran into Ste earlier," she accused. She never stammered, even when she was nervous. He liked that about her too.

"And…?" Brendan responded, picking up his pen again. Carefully, he dropped his gaze to it, not fully trusting his long-honed composure. Not today.

"And he was really upset," Ashley continued, the accusation fading from her tone. She sounded upset herself. Stephen could do that to people, Brendan knew. He still found it incredible. That breath-taking, unashamed vulnerability that spoke to the world.

Brendan continued to study the nib of the pen carefully. What was she hoping for, he wondered. For him to jump suddenly from his chair and cry that this was his fault, that Stephen's despair was on his hands? Did she really believe that he hadn't been screaming that internally for the past forty minutes?

"Is that so?" he asked, disinterestedly. Did she really believe that he didn't care for him with every shred whatever twisted, vile version of love he was capable of?

His hand was steady, now, holding the pen. He turned it over in his hand. "What about?"

"About you," she said, slowly. Judgmental, he thought mirthlessly.

"But you already know that, don't you?" she continued.

She paused for a moment. "What have you done to him?"

It was the way she said it. No judgement, no anger, no cocky triumph. Just sadness.

He felt winded, like he'd been punched hard in the stomach. And like he'd been punched, he felt his stony expression crumple, just for a second. Terrified, his eyes flew to her. This was the girl who had tried fruitlessly to unmask him before. Had she seen?

Miraculously, her eyes were fixed on the floor.

By the time she raised them, his face was rigid again, his eyes black holes boring into her.

"Are we done here?" he asked, stonily.

Wordlessly, she exited. He listened to the heavy door of his cell clang shut behind her. He felt breathless in her wake. What have you done to him? The question echoed around the stone walls of the cell.

What had he done to him? In that hospital bed, listening to him bumble about getting engaged, Brendan had known that the only way to save him from the barren, loveless fate that was his own was to let go. He had let go, he pleaded to himself. But then threat of Walker, dangling above Brendan's broken head like a dagger, alone and desperate… He had leaned on Stephen, weakly, he had needed Stephen. And when Walker pointed that gun, Brendan had acted in the only way he could… But Stephen had seen it, then. He'd seen the depth and breadth of Brendan's devotion. He had poisoned him. Poisoned him with infective, twisted Brendan Brady love.

The walls were closing. They pushed their rough stone surfaces into his face. The scraped and screeched as they advanced, pressing in. Fury pounded in his head, pulse rushing in his ears. He wanted to break something, someone.

He leapt up, forgetting his crutches, and hurled himself out the prison door, crashing into a customer. Arms flailing pointlessly for his forgotten crutches, Brendan swayed dangerously before careening to the floor, dragging the innocent bystander with him.

They both lay crumpled together on the sticky nightclub floor, a mess of intermingled limbs.

"Sorry, Stephen," Brendan said, pressing everything he could into those words as he looked desperately into familiar blue eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

The caressing Californian sun shone hotly down on the startling blue waters, its reflection dancing upon the gentle waves as they lapped against the side of the little boat. In the distance, the joyful cry of gulls was heard, the undisputed kings of this paradise, drenched in warmth and light and peace.

Doug swore loudly.

The sound reverberated, cutting through the quiet expanse rudely. But Doug was oblivious. His attention was fixed on his phone, frustration deforming his pretty face. Stupid goddamn phone companies and their stupid goddamn promises about roaming cover. And stupid goddamn Carl and his stupid goddamn suggestion that Doug row out to the middle of nowhere to "get away from it all".

For the seventh time, he hit "REDIAL" and pressed the phone up to his ear in time to hear the maddening no-connection tone. He swore loudly again, resisting the urge to throw the piece-of-junk mobile out of the boat into the depths below. That wouldn't help anybody, he told himself reasonably.

Anyway, Ste had said he loved him. He had heard that much, through the agonising transatlantic static of their conversation, he had at least heard him saying that. "I SAID, I LOVE YOU!"

Surrendering, he tossed his treasonous phone back into his satchel and picked up the two wooden oars again. He would call him when he got back to Carl's house, he told himself, and they would spend hours crying and arguing and apologising and laughing. For right now, the most important thing had been said. He exhaled a shaky breath. The thing he had been afraid he might never hear again.

It had been stupid to leave. He realised that almost as soon as his feet had touched the American ground. Before he left, he had felt his whole world slipping slowly through his fingers – Riley dead, the deli closed until further notice, Ste looking at him without that ever-present hint of grateful, vulnerable disbelief in his eyes. And Ste looking at Brendan in a different way…

It was instinct, he guessed. When he found the sand sinking beneath his feet, he ran. That was what had taken him from his comfortable middle-American lifestyle to the backstreets of Bangkok, from the slums of Thailand to the rolling hills of Eastern Europe, from farmland Slovenia to a small village in the north of England. "Finding the world", he had called it, when he spoke to his friends. Travel, experience, soul-searching. They were all just ways to romanticise the fact that when the sand started sinking, he was gone.

But he had grown out of that, he thought fiercely. Two years ago, when Brendan Brady had started pouring water onto the ground underneath his feet, he hadn't run. They had been his darkest hours, but he had stuck it out, fought to hold on to the things and the people he cared for, and he had lasted the distance. The Doug Carter that existed today – settled member of the community, small business owner, committed and loving partner – barely resembled the shell of a man that existed three years ago.

Still, he had run this time.

Maybe it had started as a threat. It had terrified him, that change in Ste's eyes. They had argued before, of course they had, but he had never seen that. So maybe stupidly, foolishly, in his terror, he had thrown it out there. He was leaving, going to California. "For a while". He wasn't sure what he had expected, or hoped for. Ste to jump up and pack a bag, determined to go with him? Ste to beg him not to leave, not with things like this between them? Probably all he wanted was a flash, however short-lived, of that old expression in his eyes. He didn't get it, though. Instead, he had listened mute as his lover asked dubiously if he wanted him to come too, voice filled with uncertain obligation. In that moment, it had seemed pointless to retract the threat. What did he have to stay for?

But it had been wrong. As soon as the plane bumped onto the runway in Los Angeles he had felt a sickening lump of regret moving up from his stomach to his chest until he felt like he might vomit. Hollyoaks was his home, Ste was his home, and here was he, suddenly finding himself a thousand miles away from it and from him.

It had been agonising, the movement through passport control and baggage collection, the awkward reunion with Jason and Seth at arrivals as they shed tears over their dead brother, the silent taxi-ride back to Carl's place, Doug struggling through it all to keep the acid lump of regret from rising up any further. When he had finally found himself alone in the guest room, he had pulled out his phone and with panicking fingers dialled the number he knew by heart.

"HI, THIS IS STE. CAN'T GET TO THE PHONE RIGHT NOW, OBVIOUSLY, SO LEAVE A MESSAGE. CHEERS!"

The voice was bright, cheery. Doug had felt it like a gentle, familiar caress across his tense shoulders. He allowed himself a small smile as he waited for the beep and then spoke, telling Ste he loved him and he was sorry and to call him back.

The next two days had dragged by. He spent all his time with the Costelloes, speaking about Riley, comforting them and himself with a thousand anecdotes that came back to him when he thought of his kind, courageous, loving friend. All the time he had his phone with him, waiting for that call that wasn't coming. Each day, he tried again, leaving the same message, rushing through the last few words in the same way, fearing his voice would break before he finished. And each night, as he closed his eyes, he felt a little more certain that his life would never be the same as it was.

Doug hadn't known Ste well during the time he was with Brendan. He couldn't remember where they had first met – in ChezChez maybe, when he was working there behind the bar, or in the Price Slice, buying a box of Frosties or something for the kids. He couldn't even really remember what he had thought of Ste, back then. A teenage dad, an ex-joyrider, a high-school dropout. Doug became vaguely aware of some connection with Brendan while Ste was dating Noah, but generally, he hadn't really considered him at all. Back then Doug's main concern had been escaping Brendan Brady. The strange dynamics of his romantic relationship with the barman had been of no interest to Doug. All he had cared about was extracting himself from the vice-like grasp of the twisted Irishman and unhooking himself from his hold.

That's why he had thought he understood. When he began to get to know Ste, when they began to dream of owning their own business together, when Ste began to matter more to him than anybody else, Doug had thought he understood the terrified, violent hatred that Ste had for his former boss and lover. He had been there too, after all, desperately trying to free himself of the merciless man. He knew that fear and powerlessness, dancing like a puppet at the end of his string. He understood Ste being adamant that Brendan never have that hold over him again.

But slowly, he realised. It started one very innocuous day. Brendan, being obnoxious as usual and demanding a jam sandwich in the deli, Doug asking Ste to run over to Price Slice and get some, Ste folding up his apron and brushing past Brendan towards the door.

Brendan shouted after him. "Make sure its– "

"Seedless, I know," Ste interrupted.

In that tiny, insignificant exchange, Doug had suddenly realised that his past with Brendan was nothing like Ste's. With a strange, confusing dropping sensation in the pit of his stomach, he realised that there had been a time once when Ste would have made sure it was seedless just to see Brendan's smile.

Where had he learned that he liked seedless jam, Doug wondered. Over the breakfast table, maybe, the two of them sitting close together, each surreptitiously absorbed by the other. After the night before. Ste self-consciously plonking a seeded pot of jam on the kitchen table, sitting down next to Brendan so that their knees grazed under the table. Brendan making a face at it, pretending to be bothered by such banality as he felt the warmth of Ste's leg pressing against his own. Ste teasing gently him for being a fussier eater than Lucas as he bit into his own slice of toast, wiping an errant piece of jam from the corner of his lips in the way that Doug loved.

Maybe Brendan loved that too.

Doug had hated Brendan almost from the moment he met him. But Ste, he had loved him once. The hatred had only come after. It was difficult to picture them alone together. Brendan, closed and impenetrable, coldly impervious to the pain that he caused, never betraying anything in his rigid face or black eyes. And Ste, beautiful Ste, open and loving and argumentative and impulsive, constantly worried about everyone he knew, wearing his generous vulnerable heart on his sleeve for the whole world to see. Doug wished he had paid more attention back then, studied the way they moved around each other, the way Ste had looked at Brendan when he had been so infatuated by him.

By the third day, Doug had resigned himself to the fact that Ste wasn't going to call him. Somehow, impossibly, the man he had asked to marry him only two weeks ago was lost to him forever. He felt numb.

It must have shown on his face, the terrible weight of that resignation. Carl, the grieving father, began to look at him with concern.

"It's been a tough few days for you, Doug," he said, totally unaware of the overwhelming understatement of his words. "You know, trying to support us through this, trying to be strong for us. Maybe you need a break from it for a while. Take the boat out on the water for a bit. Get away from it all."

Doug had acquiesced, mainly because the effort of sitting with the grieving family all day without pouring out his relationship woes to them was becoming exhausting. He had climbed into the red wooden boat called "Heidi" and rowed for hours, until the land was just a speck in the distance and he drifted inconsequent in the massive expanse of the Pacific. Then his phone had started ringing.

Of all the times, he thought in frustration, as he rehashed the broken, disjointed conversation in his head for the millionth time. His arms were aching from rowing, but he was determined to get back to the house, to call Ste, to find out if there was a way through this. Ste had said he loved him, that was the important part, right?

But what about Brendan? The irritating, needling, doubting voice in the back of his head kept whispering it, every time he remembered Ste's voice bellowing down the phone. What about Brendan?

Maybe he should never have asked Ste to marry him. That was when it all started to go wrong. That was when Ste had gone to visit Brendan in the hospital, had invited him to come and live with them. That was when Doug had noticed that the practiced hatred in Ste's eyes when Brendan was around had disappeared. How long had that hatred been gone for, Doug wondered, without him noticing. And if the hatred was gone, what was left?

In the distance, he began to make out the shape of the split-level beach house and the little wooden dock. Surely he would have network coverage this close to land? Hastily he dropped the oars and rummaged in his bag for his phone. His hand closed around it and he looked joyfully at the three little lines next to the network symbol. It was working.

Hurriedly, he hit the number into the keypad and held the phone to his ear eagerly, listening to the wonderful ringtone.

"HI, THIS IS STE. CAN'T GET TO THE PHONE RIGHT NOW, OBVIOUSLY, SO LEAVE A MESSAGE. CHEERS!"

Slowly, he lowered the phone without saying anything and picked up the oars again. He tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest. He'd try again when he got back to Carl's.


	7. Chapter 7

Ste was leaning back on the bar stool, elbows resting on the bar behind him, watching disaster unfold.

"He's never gonna do it," Will said, his voice completely unconvinced and slightly worried, staring in the same direction as Ste.

"He will," Scott said, not tearing his eyes from the scene as he spoke. "He. Is. Trollied."

"Well if he shows up at the deli tomorrow with a black eye, he's not coming in," Ste contributed.

Silence fell over the group as they watched. Barney, staggering slightly and belching a lot, was making his way over to the tipsy group of late-thirties women who had just pulled feather boas from their bags, confirming everyone's suspicions that they were a hen party ready for a rowdy night. He stopped two paces away, running a confident hand through his curly mane and straightening his shoulders.

"Excuse me, ladies!" he announced, dramatically.

The three onlookers unconsciously leaned forward, straining to catch every word.

"You alright, love?" one of the women enquired, eyeballing him with a predatory look in her eye. She looked a bit like Myra McQueen, Ste thought.

"All the better for seeing you ravishing beauties," he told them, generously.

"You're a right flirt, you!" said a bony woman with peroxide blond hair. She elbowed the Myra-esque woman beside her. "In't he a right flirt, this one?!"

"Oh, he is," Myra-lookalike replied, not taking her hungry eyes off him.

"Well ladies, you're obviously out for a good night," Barney continued, giving them a devilish wink. "So I just wanted to let you know, whoever's out for a shag at the end of the night, I'm you're man! I'm not picky, I'll take anyone!"

The three boys at the bar were practically falling off their stools they were leaning so far forward.

"Told you he'd do it," Scott breathed.

"Yeah, alright!" shouted the Myra-lookalike, before grabbing his arm roughly, pulling him down beside her, and planting her gob firmly on top of his. Barney struggled for a minute but then, in his drunken state, seemed to succumb to his fate.

"Wow," Will said, as the three of them turned back to face the bar, slightly scarred by what they had witnessed.

"Looks like he'll be waking up with a lot more than a black eye," Scott joked.

"Well he ain't bringing her in the deli either," Ste said, just to clarify.

"You shouldn't have dared him, Scott," Will scolded. "You know what he's like."

"Hey, at least it'll be someone else picking him up off the floor every ten minutes for the rest of the night!" Scot defended himself, and Ste had a sneaking suspicion that he had known how his dare would play out all along. He laughed.

The place was starting to fill up now, growing noisier and hotter as Friday night clubbers joined the music and bodies. It happened so quickly, Ste thought, remembering the days he had spent behind that busy bar. He had hated it the way fifteen minutes could change the place from lifeless to jam-packed. Interrupting his and Brendan's time alone…

Rhys was on his own behind the bar tonight, looking grumpy.

"Right, can I get you lads another then?" he asked, coming over to where the trio were leaning against the bar.

"I'm alright, I'm gonna head after this one, me," Ste declined. The other two protested and Ste found himself agreeing to another. This wasn't so bad, this. Better than his empty flat, at least.

"Where's Ash tonight?" Will enquired as he paid for the drinks.

"Who knows?" Rhys grumbled in reply. "Seems like every staff member that's walked in today has vanished up them stairs. Might as well be running this place on me own." Roughly, he threw Will's money into the register and slammed it shut. "She'd better be working the upstairs bar, that's all I'll say."

"Right, I see," Will said diplomatically as he accepted the beers. He turned to the other two. "Let's head upstairs, then!"

For a split second, Ste considered saying no, calling it a night just as he'd said he would. But he had a new drink in his hand now, and he was actually enjoying this, the mindless banter. It felt like ages since he'd last been like this.

As they made their way up the familiar metal staircase, Ste's disobeying mind flashed back to the many times he'd made this ascent. The first time he'd met Brendan, he'd walked up these stairs and found himself face to face with that Irish fist. When Warren had told him about how Danny had died, he'd trudged up these steps to ask the question he already knew the answer to in his heart. When Brendan told him he loved him, he'd bounded up these stairs feeling that at any moment his feet would lift clear off the ground and he'd be flying.

But tonight, he was just part of the crowd, pushing and shoving to get up or down, trampling on the ghosts that had been there before. Ghosts. That was all they were now, ghosts that had faded away.

And I'm engaged to Doug, Ste reminded himself.

Ash was nowhere to be seen at the upstairs bar, it being manned by a barman Ste had never seen before.

"I wonder where she is?" Will said, looking around anxiously. Maybe he had a thing for her, Ste thought.

"Who cares, mate?" Scott dismissed. "Where are the fit birds at? That's all we need to be worried about tonight!"

He rubbed his hands together gleefully, then threw an apologetic glance at Ste.

"And fit blokes," he added, generously.

"Don't worry about me, mate," Ste corrected him. "I'm engaged, me. I ain't about to–"

The words died in his throat as he his eyes fell on Ash walking out of the office and slamming the door behind her. She looked upset. His pulse quickened, thinking of the things he'd said to her earlier. Had she told them to Brendan? Had Brendan heard him, from his position up on the balcony?

Will's eyes followed Ste's gaze to the flushed, blond-haired girl.

"Ash," he cried in concern. She dismissed him, stalking over to the stairs and down them. Not wanting him to see her upset, Ste presumed. Will didn't seem to presume this though, because he followed her, calling her name as though he thought she hadn't heard him the first time.

"And another one bites the dust," Scott said.

Ste didn't answer. Why was she upset, he worried. What had Brendan said to her? He chewed nervously at his nails. Or what had she said to Brendan, about Ste?

Scott stood beside the silent Ste, looking around awkwardly. "Er, I'm just gonna go take a slash."

He left Ste standing alone at the bar, clinging on to his drink with two hands, eyes still fixed on the steel door that he had seen slam seconds before. He should go home, he thought.

Tentatively, he took a few steps away from the bar and stopped. He should go home and wait for Doug.

He brought the bottle of beer to his lips again and drank deeply. He should go home and wait for Doug and forget about this addictive, ghost-filled place.

His feet were moving against his will now, bringing him closer to the steel door that led to Brendan's lair. He should go home, he thought again.

Suddenly, the barricade flew open and Brendan crashed out, wild and furious, smashing straight into Ste. They swayed for a moment, a glorious moment which filled Ste's nose with the smell of his aftershave, covered his body in the heat of his heartbeat, pressed his limbs with the power of his hands. And then they fell, landing entwined on the dirty floor.

"Sorry, Stephen," Brendan said, sounding pained.

"It's alright, I'm fine," Ste replied, reluctantly removing his arms from around the other man and sitting up. "Are you alright?"

Brendan was still lying flat on the ground where they had landed, staring unseeingly ahead. Ste looked down at him, his worry about what Ash had said momentarily vanished.

"Oh no, your crutches!" he cried. "Where are they? Are they in the office? Are you alright, Brendan? Brendan?!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm alright," Brendan quieted him, seemingly snapping out of his reverie. Where had he been, Ste wondered. It was always so difficult to know where he was, on the inside.

"Here, let me help you up," Ste said, wrapping a lanky arm around his chest to pull him into a sitting position. A thrill pulsed through him. The closeness. Chest against chest. Excitedly, he wondered if Brendan could sense it. A heavy, rhythmic thump against his ribcage. Heart against heart. He swallowed, involuntarily. Body against body.

"Come on, let's get you up," he said pointlessly, trying to drown out his own desire with inane words. "Do you think you can stand?"

"Yeah," Brendan answered, huskily. His breath was hot against Ste's cheek. It gave him gooseflesh, that hot breath, that husky voice whispering into his ear, so close he could almost taste it on his tongue. Foolishly, he let his eyes meet the dark, wide eyes of the other man, boring into him. They saw his soul, he felt. They saw the evil, the ugly, the things he was ashamed of showing to the world. They saw the pain, the scars, the frightened little boy cowering in a corner. They saw the pride, the happiness, the endless stores of love brimming in his heart. They saw it all, and they understood it, and they wanted him.

They were pressed together now, eyes locked, breath mingling. The music and bodies of the club around them faded, more faint than the ghosts. All Ste could see was Brendan. So close, he could almost feel the whiskers from his lip scratch at his own. All that existed was him and Brendan and the sticky nightclub floor. Locked into his eyes, knowing that his own eyes were telling him everything he needed to know.

That they didn't see it all, and they understood only part. But they wanted him.

"On three, right?" Brendan said, breaking the spell.

Ste was momentarily stunned.

"What?" he asked, confusedly.

"Stand on three," Brendan answered, moving his eyes to a point over Ste's shoulder, avoiding him.

"Right," said Ste, vaguely. He felt dazed as he listened to Brendan count to three and he struggled to help the heavier man to his feet.

"Thanks for that," Brendan said dismissively, once they were righted again. He continued to stare at some invisible point over Ste's shoulder.

"No problem," said Ste, watching him walk back towards the office and step inside. He stretched out an arm, preparing to close the heavy door behind him.

"No, wait!" Ste cried suddenly, stepping forward to block the doorway. "It is a problem. I mean, it's not alright. I mean, I need to talk to ya."

Finally he looked at Ste again, impatience painted all over his face. Except for his eyes. His eyes never showed anything other than seeing, and understanding, and wanting. Not when they looked at Ste.

"I'm busy, Stephen."

Ste pushed past him, into his lair. He wasn't doing this standing in a doorway, being treated like an inconvenience.

"I just wanted to tell ya," he began, defiantly. "That I rang Doug earlier."

"Well that's nice," Brendan replied, reluctantly shutting the door and making his way over to his chair. Making sure there was a desk between them.

"I rang him, and I told him that I love him."

There was a pause. The crafted impatience faded from Brendan's face and instead it was washed over by breath-taking tiredness. Except for his eyes.

"That's good, Stephen," he said, the pretence gone from his voice. It was unnerving, that simple honesty coming from a man who never let his guard down. It was like surrender. "It's good. I told you, I'm done messing with your life now. I'm happy that you're happy with Douglas. It's what I want."

"NO IT'S NOT!" Ste shouted.

Brendan flinched.

"It's not what you want, Brendan!" he continued, filling the tiny room with his anger, his frustration, his desperation. "You want me! You want me to be happy with you! Why can't you say that?"

Brendan's eyes closed for a moment, wistfully. When they opened, resignation mingled with the tiredness in his face.

"There's no point in wanting that, Stephen," he said quietly. "Wanting you to be happy with me. That can never happen."

Ste moved now. In three steps he was around the other side of the desk, hands leaning on either arm of his chair, bending down on top of him.

"Why not?" he yelled, face inches away from the other man. A year ago, this would have gotten his face smashed in, but he didn't care. He'd take the risk. "Tell me why!"

"I… can't, Stephen."

Suddenly, the door swung open and Rhys Ashworth stomped into the office. He froze at the vision before him, Brendan Brady cowering in his desk chair while Ste Hay pressed himself down upon him. Instantly, Ste had thrown himself back against the wall and Brendan had swung his chair around, face rearranged into the black impenetrable glare.

"What is it, Rhys?" Brendan snarled.

Rhys gulped before answering. Terrified, Ste thought. Not because of what he had seen, but because Brendan knew he had seen it.

"It's just… that hen party down stairs, y'know. One of 'em, she's after getting sick in the middle of the dancefloor."

Brendan let silence hang in the air before answering.

"So clean it up."

"Right," said Rhys, nodding and backing out of the office. "Right, yeah, of course… Thanks… Sorry."

And he was gone.

Brendan stayed sitting, chair facing forward, looking at the spot where Rhys had stood. Ste stayed pressed against the wall, eyes on Brendan. Neither of them spoke at all for several minutes. That was it, Ste supposed. He had been right to choose Doug. It didn't matter what those eyes showed, the seeing and the understanding and the wanting. The bottom line would never change. The bottom line was Ste sitting in the gutter in the dark, eagerly waiting for whatever scraps were thrown his way.

"Would you come somewhere with me, Stephen?" Brendan whispered, breaking the silence and surprising Ste out of his thoughts. He was still staring straight ahead. "It's a bit of a drive. But I need to… show you something."

Ste shifted uncomfortably, thrown by this unexpected request.

"When do you want to go?" he asked, buying a little more time before answering.

"Tonight," Brendan replied, finally turning his gaze towards him. His seeing, and his understanding, and his wanting. He scooped up a set of car keys into his hand. "Now."

This could be it, Ste thought. Brendan was different right now, more naked than Ste had ever seen him. If he didn't use this window to find out… to find out why…

Suddenly, the tense room was filled by the blaring voice of Britney Spears. "…You're toxic I'm slipping under…" It was Ste's ringtone.

He glanced down at his phone and saw "DOUG CALLING…" plastered across the screen. With a flash of guilt, he muted it. He could call him back later.

"Yeah, alright," he said to Brendan.


	8. Chapter 8

They had been driving for well over an hour now. Brendan blinked, trying to clear the fatigue from his head as he gazed out at the dark stretch of tarmac in front of them, illuminated by the eerie orange glow of streetlamps and the dazzling white lights of other cars.

Surreptitiously, he glanced over at Stephen, his slim frame slouched in the passenger seat, head lolling to the side as he watched the passing darkness from the window. Silent since they climbed into the car. It surprised Brendan. He had expected him to be one of those restless passengers, like Cheryl or Declan, blabbering away mindlessly, fidgeting with the radio, asking how long more it would take again and again.

Then again, maybe he would have been like that, on a different day, in a different car. With a different man driving him.

How would he know what sort of passenger Stephen was anyway? He had never driven him anywhere before. They had never travelled to Belfast to visit his family, or gone on a weekend break. Nothing normal like that.

Stephen's phone began to buzz again, muted but vibrating against his pocket. It was the fifteenth time in the last hour. Neither of them acknowledged the sound, just continued to stare out their respective windows, unmoving.

Who was calling him, Brendan wondered. Amy? Nah, it couldn't Amy. Stephen would never ignore her calls like that, he'd be too afraid that something was wrong with one of the kids. It must be Doug. Brendan felt instantly guilty at the unbidden flash of triumph that shot through him at the notion of Stephen ignoring Doug's calls. That wasn't what he wanted. He wanted Stephen to be with Doug. He wanted Doug to make him happy, in the way that Brendan couldn't.

Again, Brendan tore his eyes from the road for a second to steal a glance at the boy beside him. He looked so beautiful, laying his sandy head back on the leather headrest, blue eyes half-closed under long lashes, his soft pink lips slightly apart. Beautiful, apart from the single line between his eyebrows, creasing his perfect skin into a frown. Brendan dragged his eyes back to the road, resisting the urge to reach over and brush that line away with his thumb. It couldn't be brushed away, he reminded himself sadly. Besides, it had been Brendan who put it there.

Sometimes, in the dead hours of the night, when all the world was sleeping, Brendan would lie awake in his neat, orderly room and try to remember exactly when it was that Stephen had become the reason. His reason, Brendan Brady's, the impenetrable man who had never been in love. All his life, he had struggled to keep people at arm's length. Alone, he was safe. Alone, he was in control. Alone, he was the invincible, untouchable master that he had wanted to be with every single frightened tear that had rolled down his cheek as a kid.

He recalled their first meeting with excruciating detail. The cocky threat, the mouthy swagger, the whiney disbelief when his attempt at blackmail met with Brendan's iron fist. Brendan wanted him. He was straight, apparently, but Brendan knew better. He could read him like a book, every thought and feeling worn carelessly across his face. So slowly, Brendan began to reel him in, just as he had so many times with so many others. Slowly, he began to satisfy his lust, making certain to keep his controlled thumb pressed down upon them both, just as he always did. It should have been just like every other time. But it wasn't. Somewhere, the tables had turned. Stephen had become the puppet-master and Brendan the idiotic, dancing slave.

Why, he had asked himself a thousand times. What was it about the boy? His vulnerability, perhaps. That open, readable face that Brendan had mistaken for weakness at the start. Through that face, Brendan could view a lifetime of uncensored shame and joy and heartache. He could see beautiful, unselfish gratitude and forgiveness and love, in spite of all the crimes that had been committed against him. He was witnessing everything that was lacking in himself, everything he had fought to stamp down and erase, making beautiful glorious sense in Stephen. Maybe that was why, but he didn't know.

Maybe there was no reason. Maybe he just loved him because he did.

He should have left that little village years ago, he knew that. His presence there had just created problems for Cheryl, for Lindsay, for Joel. But he couldn't tear himself away. He couldn't wake up each morning knowing that he would not see that face before he closed his eyes again that night. Even if it was only from a distance, across a great impassable gully.

There were less cars on the road now, traffic growing sparser as the night got later and they moved further from civilisation.

"We're nearly there," Brendan said, his voice sounding unnaturally loud as it broke through the silence for the first time since their drive began. He cleared his throat, uncomfortably.

"Right," said Stephen, shifting self-consciously in his seat, as though waking from a secret daydream. He turned his head towards Brendan, studying him, but Brendan kept his eyes fixed on the road. Now they were approaching their destination, he was growing unsure.

They pulled to a stop beside the crumbling white beach house, it's façade a gaping black hole, telling of the trauma it had seen.

"This is it," Brendan said, but his hands didn't drop from the steering wheel. His knuckles were white.

"Right," Stephen said again. Totally unaware of what was going on, but willing to wait, willing to do whatever Brendan asked him to, whenever he asked him to. Brendan felt an overwhelming rush of love for him, for his accepting, forgiving willingness.

Slowly, he let his vice grip on the steering wheel go and climbed out of the car, stretching his long legs after hours cramped into a sitting position. Stephen followed suit, walking around the side of the car to stand beside Brendan. He left a gap between them, a hands-width. It might as well have been a thousand miles.

"So why are we here, then?" he asked, still studying the face of the other man. Hunting for clues.

Brendan's eyes were on the ground. Could he do this? It had seemed like the only option, the only way to let Stephen be happy. He had thought it would be easier, out here. But now they had arrived, he felt himself drowning in ghosts, the ghosts of twenty years ago and the ghosts of ten days ago. Stephen, he thought, closing his eyes briefly. This was about Stephen. He had lived with his ghosts long enough, they were nothing new to him.

"I need to… show you," Brendan said, haltingly. Then he started walking, leading the younger man down the winding path through the coarse sand to the exploded entrance.

"Is this where you…?" Stephen trailed off, indicating Brendan's limping gait with a nod of his head.

"Yeah," Brendan answered, dully. Stephen looked upset, drinking in the scarred landscape. Frightened. Brendan paused a moment, wondering if he was doing the right thing.

"It's upstairs," he told Stephen, eyes locked on his face. His open, trusting face. "The thing that I need to show you."

Stephen looked into the charred remains of the building at the stairs, visible from outside now that the house had been torn in half.

"Are you sure it's safe?" he asked, dubiously.

Brendan couldn't suppress a mirthless laugh. Safe? What was safe? There was nothing that could happen to him in this house worse than what had already happened to him here.

"No, I'm not," he answered, before walking inside.

Cautiously, he climbed the blackened stone steps, keeping himself close to the wall to avoid the sheer drop on the open side. He felt the ghosts swirl around him as he climbed, pressing in on top of him, prising open his jaw and pouring themselves down his throat. Walker, his panicked eyes realising he'd revealed himself. Cheryl, her broken sobs bent over Nana's lifeless body. Nana, her frail and frantic struggles against his powerful grip. His father…

Half the room had been blasted away, the wooden floorboards crumbling into nothingness three metres out from the wall. He had thought he would feel glad. But he didn't. It wasn't the room's fault. It had suffered, just as he had, because of what had happened here. It had been destroyed, left as an empty wasted shell, just as he had. Weak, he collapsed to the ground and positioned himself sitting, back against the wall, staring out at the black expanse of the sky, blind to the stars that decorated it.

Stephen appeared at the doorway.

"Brendan, this looks really dangerous," he said, surveying the vanished wooden floor a few metres away. "This floor, it could give way any minute, this."

Brendan said nothing and Stephen, chewing nervously on his lip, took a tentative step forward. The tired planks creaked beneath his feet, but he continued on to Brendan and lowered himself gingerly to the ground beside him. Shoulders touching, knees grazing. Protecting each other.

Brendan wanted to speak now, to tell the boy the reason he had dragged him all this way in the middle of the night, to explain why he was making him sit on this rotting wood in this broken house. But he couldn't say goodbye yet. He needed him too much, pressed up against him, warming him as the ghosts covered him in their icy caresses. Not yet.

"Why do you love me Stephen?" he asked, suddenly.

"What?" Stephen said, too quickly. "I never said that I… I just want to know why… I mean, Doug…"

The sentences died in his throat, one after the other. Brendan stayed quiet.

"I dunno," Stephen answered, his eyes fixed on the starry sky as well. "I just do."

It was staggering. Even with his open, readable face, he could still stagger Brendan with his truthfulness. Of course he didn't know why, this was Stephen. He didn't lie awake in bed at night trying to rationalise his emotions, trying to quash his desires. He was alive, beautifully alive. Brendan needed to set him free.

"Stephen," Brendan whispered, dropping his gaze from the invisible stars to his own wringing hands. He could feel the boy's face turn towards him, could sense the concern written across it though he didn't look up.

"Stephen, when I was a kid, we used to come here. On holiday. Every summer, y'know. It was our nana's place, our dad's mam. It was the only time I used to see my dad, after he left my mam."

He felt the pressure of Stephen's hand on his knee and had to reign in his instinct to hit it away. Let it lie there, what did it matter? It would be gone forever, soon enough.

"This was my room," he went on, lifting his eyes to the burnt out shell. "Every year, from when I was six to when I was thirteen, this was my room."

He paused for a minute, remembering. Sitting in the living room in Dublin, bags packed, waiting for the car to come and bring him back to this place. Every year, back to this place.

When he spoke again, his voice was dead, uncaring, drained of all emotion.

"This was where my dad abused me," he said. "Every year. From when I was six to when I was thirteen. He would come up with reasons to send the girls away, out of the house, and he'd take me by the hand and bring me up the stairs. We'd come in here, he'd shut the door. And then he'd take his trousers off. And then he'd take my trousers off. Every year."

He couldn't utter another word for that moment. All of his energy was focussed on that overwhelming vat of memory, teetering dangerously on the brink of spillage. Suddenly, he became aware of Stephen's hand, moved from his knee, touching his cheek. Confused, he looked at the boy's face, wet with tears, contorted in anguish. And pity.

He was on his feet in a second, Stephen's hand pushed roughly away from his cheek, floorboards groaning dangerously beneath him.

"So anyway, now you see," he rushed, struggling to keep his voice even. Control, he needed to control it. "Now you see why you can't be happy with me, why I can't have that. I can't be normal."

With a final glance at the sobbing boy on the floor, he stepped over him and strode across the room to the stairs, escaping. Away from that room, away from the ghosts, away from Stephen. Alone.


	9. Chapter 9

Ste watched Brendan's figure disappear down the stone steps. His mind reeled. Tears coursed down his face, thick and fast. Breaths came in short, panicked little gasps. Brendan… not Brendan. This couldn't be true. He couldn't let it be true.

He swam before him, dead-eyed, tearless, speaking the words. "Every year, from when I was six to when I was thirteen." Ste felt an acid lump rising up from his stomach and suddenly the decaying wooden floorboards were covered in his vomit.

How could he have kept this inside for so long? Away from the world, from his family, from Ste? His gut retched again, but there was nothing to come up this time. How had Ste not seen it, not seen him? Alone. Abandoned. Afraid.

And now he was gone. Ste leapt to his feet, completely oblivious to the groaning floorboards that had caused him so much worry before. Ste had let him walk away, let him tell him that his fate was solitary misery, and not thrown his arms out to stop the man. Panic rising in his chest, he rushed to the stone steps and hurtled down them. What if he had driven off already? What if he had disappeared?

"Brendan!" he shouted pointlessly, throwing his voice to the stars. Find him, he pleaded with the glittering orbs, help me to find him. Wildly, he scanned the long stretch of beach, ears filled with the rhythmic crash of the Irish Sea as it hurled itself masochistically against rocks, again and again.

"Brendan!" he cried again, his despair echoing through the night.

And suddenly, miraculously, he saw him.

He was standing facing the black waters, back to Ste, oblivious to the tide lapping over the Italian leather of his shoes. Ste was running, pounding over the soft sand to get to him, to hold him. Three or four paces away he came to a halt, suddenly afraid. What should he do? What could he do? He hovered, eyes on the lonely, tortured man. How could someone fix this?

"Brendan," he called softly, letting the breeze carry his voice to the man's ears.

"Go away, Stephen," Brendan said, not turning around. The way he said it made Ste hesitate. Coldly, authoritatively.

The way he used to speak to him before he smashed a fist into his face.

But Ste still had a burning lump of acid in his throat, still had stains from the hot tears he had shed on his face. No, he wasn't leaving this man alone.

Slowly and deliberately, he walked over and moved around him until he was staring at his face. It was covered in tears.

"Brendan," he whispered, crippled by the sight of those hard lips trembling uncontrollably, those dark eyes red and puffy. Instinctively, he wrapped his hands around the other man's neck, bringing their foreheads together as Brendan had done to him so often. What could he say? What could he say that would make him see that he wasn't alone anymore?

"Don't, Stephen," Brendan muttered, his sobs coming in ragged gasps. "There's nothing… This is my stone… My stone to roll uphill."

"You don't have to do it on your own, though," Ste whispered back, trying to hammer the sincerity of the statement. He wished he was good with words, good at saying what he meant. All he had was what he felt inside.

Brendan was shaking his head, not hearing what Ste was feeling. It wasn't working.

"No, no, no," he moaned, eyes closing in pain. "No, Stephen. I want you to be happy. I want you to have a chance."

"I know how it feels," Ste was sobbing again, praying that the man before him would open his eyes, would look into the blue depths of his own and understand him like he always had. "To be a kid, to be alone, afraid, to hear him walk in and feel that lump of terror in the pit of your stomach, to know what's gonna happen…"

"It's not the same, Stephen," Brendan cut in, eyes still closed. Seeing what? What was he seeing behind those closed eyes? "It's not the same."

"I know it's not, I know," Ste agreed, fervently. He pushed his thumb roughly against the tide of tears streaming through the stubble. He was begging him now. "But it doesn't have to be your only story, Brendan."

The tears kept spilling, over his damming thumb.

Quickly, impulsively, he dropped his hands from Brendan's neck and found his way to his shirt, his fingers working fast and furiously unbuttoning the expensive silk.

"What are you doing?" Brendan asked, eyes open now but confused, disorientated. "Stop."

But Ste didn't stop, his fingers kept working defiantly all the way down, exposing Brendan's bare chest to the open air of the night. In one motion, he pushed the flashy taupe suit jacket and the soft silk shirt over broad shoulders and let them flutter to the wet sand. Roughly, Ste shrugged himself out of his own jacket and yanked the hoody over his head, so that he stood bare as well. His eyes locked on Brendan's as his fingers boldly found his belt, working the heavy leather through the metal bars, sliding it through the thin loops of fabric, throwing it to the ground. Gently, his hand loosened the last button of Brendan's clothing and his fingers closed around the zip, easing it down.

"Stop," Brendan whispered, as the flashy suit fell away, exposing his naked flesh to the night. Hurriedly, Ste kicked his own runners away and pulled his pants to the ground as fast as he could. He dropped to his knees, hands clawing at the feet of the other man, pulling away the soft Italian leather so the skin of his toes met the wet, cold sand beneath. Then he stood.

Two men stood, naked together, on the grey October sand. Ste reached out and laced his fingers through Brendan's. Brendan didn't fight him. He let himself be led, with slow deliberate steps, into the black ocean before them.

The water hit Ste like a sheet of ice, smacking his senses. Beside him, he heard Brendan gasp as well. Ste didn't stop, he kept moving forward, hand tightly knit to Brendan's. They walked until they were chest deep in the freezing darkness, and then Ste turned to face him.

"What are you doing?" Brendan murmured. His eyes were still red, still puffy, but the tears had stopped in his confusion. They were raking Ste's face now, trying to figure it out, to understand him.

"Washing it away," Ste told him, simply, not breaking the gaze.

Brendan shook his head again, but his eyes did not close this time.

"What if it can't be washed away, Stephen?" he asked, sadly.

"Then I'll take care of you."


	10. Chapter 10

Rodney Piggott was not a happy man. He was standing in a fluorescent orange uniform, made of skin-chaffing polyester, staring at a cold artificial light-bulb as it stuttered and flickered through a deserted café.

Who, in their right minds, would want to dine at a roadside café at three o'clock in the bloody morning, that's what he wanted to know. But try telling that to Stuart. In fact, he had tried telling Stuart earlier that day, as soon as that the cocky upstart had told him that he'd be doing the graveyard shift this week. Some kids just didn't wear a manager's badge well.

He continued to stare at the blinking light, growing more and more incensed by its unpredictable dance. Maybe he could try to fix it, he considered. It wasn't like he had anything else to be doing. Granted, he didn't have very much experience of electrics, but how hard could it be? Red wire, blue wire, right?

Just as he was contemplating dragging one of the metal chairs across the tiled floor to have a closer look, the door swung open, surprising him. Two men walked in, hair dripping wet and covered in sand, and plonked themselves down in a booth near the window. Rodney studied them suspiciously. They were an odd pairing. Too close in age to be father and son, but not close enough to be natural mates either. They sat, leaning into each other, as though they were conspiring about something very secret.

Drugs, Rodney thought, knowingly. Why else would they be skulking around the middle of nowhere at three in the morning? And where had all that sand come from? No good, that's where from.

The older one, he looked like a bit of a gangster, actually. He was dressed in an expensive suit, kind of light brown and shiny, the kind of suit that someone wore to show off in. His shirt was expensive too, a few buttons left open at the top to display a bit of bragging chest hair. And a heavy gold cross. Rodney always thought that was a bit hypocritical, these criminals strutting about, crosses around their necks. As if they'd ever said a prayer to God in their lives. And then there was that ridiculous moustache. He had to be either a gangster or a seventies disco star.

The younger one was a bit more ordinary looking. Hunched over, scrawny, body swallowed up in an oversized hoody, soles peeling slightly from his Adidas runners. Like a hundred other council chavs Rodney could think of. Probably the grunt-worker, doing the street-level stuff, Rodney thought.

With one last petulant glance at the maddening, flickering bulb, he picked up the fluorescent orange notepad and pencil and started to make his way over to the table.

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"Then I'll take care of you."

Brendan had stood, immersed in the black October sea, frozen fingers welded into Stephen's. His throat was raw, burning from retching sobs. His breath was ragged, panting from the panic when that vat of memory finally tipped and flooded its contents onto the sand. His heart was throbbing, painfully pumping blood around his broken shell.

But Brendan had forgotten those things. The physical world – the cold, the burning, the panting, the throbbing – it had faded, disappeared into the murky October greyness. He was in two pools of crystal blue, drowning and disbelieving.

He had told him. His worst, his dirtiest, his vilest secret. His gruesome shame. The reason for everything, for all the twisted and disgusting things he was, for all the things that he could never be. The massive gully that separated them, that separated Brendan from everything that was good and clean and beautiful. He had told him.

And he wanted to take care of him.

The pulse of heat that had travelled through Brendan's body at that moment was electrifying. It exploded from him, banishing the coldness of the water, the darkness of the night. His hands were on the naked boy in front of him, exploring him, tasting him, caressing him. He was receiving his kisses, starving frenzied kisses, kisses that had been waiting on his lips for months. Hands were in his hair now, on his back, on his hips. Lips found his lips, his teeth, his ears, his chest, his arms. Every inch of soft intoxicating skin was not enough, every thrust of wild exploring tongues made him want more. The heat blazed, scorching his fingers as they found their way downwards, roaring pulses in his ears as he felt Stephen find him. When he plunged inside they were wrapped in each other, breathing in unison, moving as one.

They had climbed from the sea after, still entwined in each other. Brendan was still sinking in blue pools, still pressing clinging fingers into the smooth flesh of his back, feeling fingers dig into him in return. His teeth were chattering, Brendan saw, as he gazed up at him with a sheepish grin he tried to suppress. Brendan let his thumb roll over the shivering smiling lips, awed by the strength and compassion. He pressed his closed mouth against the lips, shutting his eyes as the salty smell of sea-drenched skin filled his nose.

Slowly, they dressed each other, allowing fingers to trace over contours, breath to linger on skin as they did. It was something they had never done before, something Brendan had never known before. Nakedness. Closeness. Unity.

When their sand-covered clothes were draped over their wet bodies again they turned, together, and faced the crumbling white house.

"Let's get out of here, yeah?" Stephen had said.

"Yeah," Brendan had answered.

Hand-in-hand they had walked back up the winding path to the car, climbed inside, and driven away.


	11. Chapter 11

"Well, what can I get you lads?" Rodney Piggott asked, looking expectantly at the two men who had interrupted his silent struggle with the broken light-bulb.

They were sitting in a fluorescent orange booth, opposite each other, eyes locked firmly together. Neither of them glanced in his direction. They didn't even seem to hear him speak, they were so absorbed in each other.

Some kind of power struggle, Rodney presumed. The kid getting out of line, maybe, keeping some of the stash for himself… He had watched CSI, he knew how these things worked. Well they could have their battle after they'd ordered, he wasn't going to stand here all day.

He cleared his throat impatiently. "Ready to order yet?"

"Sorry," said the younger one, finally noticing him and breaking his gaze away from the other man. His voice was gentler than Rodney expected, apologetic. He felt a stab of sympathy for the lad, wrapped up in whatever he was wrapped up in. There was something a bit innocent in his face. "Can I just have a coffee please?"

Rodney grunted, scribbling down the order. Open at three o'clock in the bloody morning to profit from one bloody coffee order. That Stuart had a lot to answer for.

"And you?" he demanded, turning to the other man, the gangster. He was still staring at the lad, but it wasn't really in the menacing way that Rodney had expected. More obedient. Like it was actually the kid that was holding all the cards, calling the shots. That was an interesting twist, Rodney thought. Maybe the kid had some dirt on him, knew where he'd stashed a body or something.

Suddenly, they were interrupted by a loud buzzing noise. For a second, Rodney thought that the broken light had come up with a new way to torture him. But no, it wasn't coming from that direction. It was coming from the lad, from his pocket. His phone.

The two men in front of him seemed oblivious.

"Here, kid, you're phone's ringing," Rodney informed him, helpfully.

The lad's eyes turned back to Rodney. Worried, he thought. Guilty. Again, he felt a flicker of pity for him. He hoped he knew what he was doing, getting mixed up with this gangster fella.

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Ste was sitting in the passenger seat, staring intently at Brendan's face as he drove, afraid to rip his eyes away for even a second. The back of his hand was bleeding, he knew, from where Brendan's sharp fingernails had dug into his flesh as they stood hand-in-hand in those icy depths. Digging into him, gripping on to him, before he…

Ste tried to bite back the hazy, hedonistic grin that crept across his face as he remembered. It had been… like nothing he had ever known before. The hands, the tongues, the limbs, the bodies. It had been urgency, greed, rapture. And Brendan… Brendan was present. He was alive and open and naked, giving everything he had to Ste, letting him have everything, to touch, to stroke, to kiss. The smile was irresistible, pushing at the corners of his mouth relentlessly.

But he had to focus now, he chided himself. Focus on Brendan. The image of those trembling lips, those red puffy eyes, that tear-stained face, it burned in his brain, filling him up with helpless sorrow. Ste had made him see, he knew he had. When the words couldn't be found, Ste had managed to show him that he was not alone, would never be alone again. Brendan had seen that, Ste knew it.

But he needed to make sure he remembered seeing it, that he kept remembering. He needed to make sure that he didn't disappear into that rock hard shell again, so deep this time that Ste couldn't pull him out.

Brendan's eyes blinked as he stared at the road, trying to bat the sleep away.

"You're shattered," Ste said, eyes studying the man before him.

Brendan shrugged, glancing at Ste with a tired half-smile.

"Nah, I'm fine," he answered, eyes returning to the road. "Honestly."

"No, you're shattered," Ste repeated. "And it's gonna be ages before we get back. Look, look there!"

His attention had been caught by a fluorescent orange sign, glowing in the black night, quietly humming. COFFEE SHOP, it read.

"Look, pull in there," he reasoned. "We'll have one cup of coffee and we'll get on the road again. Fifteen minutes, maximum."

Brendan glanced at him again, the same tired eyes, the same half-smile. Obediently, he began to slow down. Ste felt himself relax a little, allowed that hazy grin to float back across his face. Things were going to be alright, he knew it. This was the beginning.


	12. Chapter 12

"Yeah, thanks," the lad mumbled as Rodney stood pointing a pudgy finger at the vibrating lump in his jacket pocket. He made no move to take the phone out of the pocket or quiet the buzzing noise.

"Answer it if you want," the other man said, speaking for the first time. An Irish accent, Rodney noted with surprise. His eyes were still on the lad, raking over his face, concerned. What did the kid have on him, Rodney wondered. It must be something good.

"No, no," the lad mumbled, running an anguished hand down his face. "No, I'll call him later."

The lad gave his shoulders a quick shake and brought his eyes up to meet the older man's again, reassuring him. Trying to hide the guilty flash that Rodney had seen in them.

"Why, who is it?" Rodney broke in suddenly, unable to put a lid on his curiosity.

Curiosity. That had always been Rodney's problem.

The Irishman's gaze broke for the first time since they'd entered. Two black eyes swung to Rodney. They were menacing now. Furious. Involuntarily, Rodney felt himself take a step backwards.

"You haven't given me your order yet," he said quickly.

The black circles continued to bore into him, unblinking, his whiskered mouth slowly curling into a snarl.

"Brendan, don't," whispered the younger man urgently, pulling at the suit sleeve with half-bitten fingernails. I wouldn't do that if I were you kid, Rodney thought. He knew exactly what thugs like this were like. Bullies, built that way from birth. Never knowing what it felt like to be on the receiving end, to be the underdog. Rodney shrank back further under the unflinching gaze. Untouchable.

The black eyes flicked back to the lad, relenting slightly. It must be something really good the kid had on him. When he returned his gaze to Rodney, there was restraint holding the menace back. Really good.

"Coffee," he drawled, imperiously. "Please."

Rodney nodded and hurried away, gratefully.

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The chubby fluorescent figure scurried away, back to the kitchen, back to safety. Brendan watched him leave, that familiar sadistic satisfaction flashing through him as he watched him flee, afraid. Stephen's fingers were still resting on the sleeve of his suit jacket, pulling him back from it. From his cruelty.

He turned back to him, to the long-lashed eyes and graceful cheekbones, the full pink lips chewing nervously on themselves as they studied him. With effort, he forced his shoulders to relax slightly, forced the anger to fade away from his eyes. The other man saw it happening, and the pink lips widened into his spectacular smile. Brendan was dazzled for a second. The pure white brightness of that smile.

"Maybe I shoulda got summat to eat," Stephen rabbited, shrugging his heavy jacket off his shoulders, happy now the anger had faded from Brendan's eyes. Thinking it had gone away, Brendan knew. That he hadn't merely pushed it down a bit, lodged it in his oesophagus as always. Ready for the next time. "Haven't eaten since lunchtime, y'know. That's–" he glanced at the cheap plastic watch on his wrist "–fourteen hours ago now!"

Brendan said nothing, just smiled half-heartedly at him. But his gaze never left the blue pools.

"Hey," Stephen said, the joviality fading from his voice and softness replacing it. "Hey, you alright?"

His face was nervous now, though he was trying not to show it. Trying to hide it, on that open face! His fingers moved from the suit sleeve to the skin on Brendan's hand, stroking it gently. They were still cold from the sea.

Cold hands, warm heart. Brendan remembered his mother saying that, when he was a kid.

"Look," Stephen was still talking, soothing, cajoling. "We'll just drink these coffees, right, and we'll be gone again. Just you and me. Together. We'll get home, we'll climb under the duvet, and we'll just talk… for as long as we need to."

His father's hands had never been cold.

Brendan's eyes fell to the table, to Stephen's bitten-away fingernails tracing patterns over his own pale Irish skin. How many of those fingernails had been bitten away because of him, he wondered sadly.

"Yeah," he said, huskily. He tried to throw himself back into those blue pools. "Yeah."

"Right," Stephen said, seeming relieved. "Listen, I'm gonna run to the loo before our coffees come, yeah? I'll be back in a minute."

Gingerly, he eased himself from the booth, withdrawing his hand from Brendan as he did. He walked across the small space of the café and disappeared into the door marked "Gentlemen", taking the blue pools with him. Brendan stayed, eyes still resting on the pale sickly Irish skin of his hand. He couldn't see the patterns now, the invisible lines drawn by the soft sallow-skinned fingers with their worried-away nails. They had disappeared as soon as the fingers did.

Suddenly, the familiar buzzing noise sounded again. He had heard it so often tonight, it didn't even surprise him anymore. He glanced, automatically, at the vibrating lump in Stephen's jacket. Douglas. At least Stephen wasn't here this time, so he didn't have to see that flash of guilt in his eyes, that anguished hand with its half-bitten nails running down his beautiful face.

He had watched them, Doug and Stephen, for months on end. Watched them trying earnestly. Watched them laughing out loud. Watched them holding hands unthinkingly as they walked down the street together. Doug, the puny little runt, allowing Stephen to be proud, to succeed, to live in the light. To live with people who didn't keep anger screwed up in a tight little ball in the oesophagus.

People who didn't have dirt embedded all the way through.

Brendan stood suddenly and strode to the counter as purposefully as his limping gait would allow. The chubby fluorescent man jumped when he turned to see him standing there, drumming his fingers on the countertop, glancing furtively at the bathroom door.

"Alright, alright, your coffee is coming," the man began to protest, warily.

"Keep it," Brendan said, throwing a ten pound note down. He leaned forward, eyes fixed on him unblinkingly. "I need you to do me a favour."


	13. Chapter 13

Rodney Piggott grumbled to himself as he poured a perfectly good cup of coffee down the sink. Three o'clock in the bloody morning and here he was wasting his time making coffee for people that didn't even want it. When he saw that Stuart next, he was going to give him a right piece of his mind.

He looked up as the door to the Gents swung open and the chavvy-looking lad stepped back into the café, eyes on the empty booth near the door.

"He's gone, lad," Rodney called, nodding towards the booth himself. The kid spun around, facing Rodney. "Ran out of the place like he left the oven on."

"What…" the lad seemed to run out of breath as he spoke, like Rodney had given him a dig in the ribs something. Oh they were an odd pair, these two. One with his manic eyes, jittering about the place, speaking a mile a minute as he told Rodney what he wanted him to say. The other, staggering about the room like he'd been kicked in the stomach.

"What…" the lad started again, but didn't get on much better the second time. His face was like a smacked backside as well, Rodney thought, screwed up into an awful contortion. Since he didn't seem to be having much luck asking questions, Rodney decided he might as well relay what he had to relay.

"He said to tell ya," he began, eyes on the ceiling as he tried to remember everything. "Thanks for trying... And that he's sorry… Oh yeah, and that you should call… Douglas, yeah, that were it."

Rodney lowered his eyes from the ceiling now, satisfied he had hit on all the salient points. "Whoever Douglas is!"

The lad said nothing in response. He had stopped gasping like a fish on land, at least. Stopped falling about the place like the building was collapsing on him. He was just standing, mute and dead-eyed, staring unseeingly at the wall in front of him. Again, Rodney felt a little twinge of sympathy for the kid. He looked quite sad. Still, Rodney thought, that's what you get when you go getting mixed up with these gangsters. It's always the little man that gets burned, never the kingpin. You could bet your bottom dollar that Irish fella wouldn't be lying awake tonight worrying about whatever this kid was worrying about.

"So," Rodney said, breaking the silence. "Will you be wanting your coffee then, or should I pour it down the sink as well?"

He waited a full minute for a response, but the lad just stood there, deaf and dumb. Finally, Rodney took the tepid cup and tipped it over, watching the brown liquid disappear quietly down the plughole. What a waste, he thought.

And at three o'clock in the bloody morning. Above his head, the electric like continued to splutter and flicker. Oh, he'd be talking to Stuart about this alright.

**THE END**

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**AN: Thanks to everyone who read all the way to the end, I hope you enjoyed it! And particular thanks to anybody who reviewed, the feedback was really appreciated as I hadn't written anything like this before. **

**I'd be really eager to hear what people thought of the way the story finished, as I know it wasn't the happy ending that some of you were looking forward to and I know the style changed a little in the last four chapters – I hope it didn't disappoint, please let me know ;)**


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